Back Into the Swing of Things
by DeniseV
Summary: Webb recruits Rabb and Mac for his first field case since their experiences in Paraguay. Is Webb really ready to get back into the swing of things?


2150 Zulu JAG Headquarters Falls Church, VA  
  
Clayton Webb gave A.J. Chegwidden the long-suffering look the admiral himself had perfected throughout his many years dealing with Harmon Rabb. The conference call with Mac and Rabb had gone on now for close to an hour. It was nearing ten at night and in Webb's view, Harm's stubbornness had held them hostage on this call well beyond what most would consider reasonable.  
  
He felt confident that he was not alone in that assessment.  
  
Rabb's harangue regarding the bad information he and Mac worked with their first day in south Florida had frustrated the CIA agent. Tonight's lecture, on the heels of the admonishment Webb had endured from Rabb a few days earlier when he first showed up at Chegwidden's office to enlist the admiral's two best people in a sting operation, was working on his already frayed nerves.  
  
Webb rubbed the bridge of his nose to try to ease the throbbing of his head. Though he considered Rabb a friend - they had worked through the problems that had cropped up during the emotional turmoil of their time in the Chaco Boreal and its aftermath - the Navy commander still had a way of getting to the agency man. This time, it did not help that Webb agreed with much of what his friend was saying about the failed intel.  
  
Webb had been up and down from his seat in the JAG's office while the conference call dragged on, his disgust with how things were progressing evident in every move, in every look he shot to Chegwidden or to the phone, using the inanimate object to vent his frustration on Rabb.  
  
Chegwidden noticed a tiredness about the operative. Clayton Webb had been back at work for a few months, desk duty only to ease him back after an equal amount of time for recovery and rehab of the injuries he had suffered at the hands of Sadik Fahd. The physical torture that Webb had withstood was severe, but it was the mental anguish that was of greater concern to the admiral.  
  
After Tim Fawkes' death in December, Chegwidden had made a point of checking in regularly with the CIA agent, to assure himself and to keep a promise to an old, dying friend, that Webb was recovering well both physically and mentally from the events the previous spring in South America.  
  
As he sat and watched Webb, what he saw resembled nothing if not a ticking bomb, ready to explode at any moment if Rabb did not get off his soapbox soon.  
  
"Well Clay? What do you have to say?"  
  
Chegwidden chose to do nothing to allay the inevitable explosion. Rabb had stepped over the line this time and would deserve whatever chastising Webb deemed appropriate. In fact, the admiral was looking forward to it.  
  
"Rabb, I know you're a smart guy. I remember seeing signs of it over the years. Smart enough to know that intelligence gathering and dissemination is not an exact science. I know you like to live in your fantasy land where you're wearing white and all the bad guys are in black," the irony of the comment not lost on Webb, who grinned slightly. "You know the drill. We collect the intelligence over time, we analyze it and come up with recommendations. We affix a level of confidence in its accuracy. We hope that we're right. We are most of the time. Sometimes we come up short."  
  
"That seems to be a pattern with you lately."  
  
The silence that followed Rabb's comment was deafening, for when Harmon Rabb said 'lately', he could only have meant the mission to get Sadik Fahd. This case in Florida was the first field work Webb had done since returning to duty.  
  
Webb looked to Chegwidden, his face projecting disappointment; disappointment that these people who he admired and trusted might truly think of him in this way.  
  
"Harm!" Mac yelled through the speaker phone.  
  
Webb walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames.  
  
"Mr. Rabb, that's enough. No one got hurt, your covers weren't blown. It didn't really set you back any. And Rabb," Chegwidden said, waiting for an acknowledgement that he had his subordinate's attention.  
  
"Yes sir," Rabb replied.  
  
"Webb's right. You've worked enough covert operations to know it, if you hadn't learned it in other ways in the last few years." Chegwidden was unmistakably referring to the mixed intel Rabb had received in the past during his quest for the truth about his father. This was certainly clear and convincing evidence of the truth Webb spoke.  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"I know you're not foolish enough to suggest that Webb himself collected and analyzed the intel. Not even he's that good."  
  
"No sir. I mean, of course, admiral." Webb seemed oblivious to the exchange.  
  
"And you do realize the mugging was a fluke."  
  
"Of course I do, sir." Rabb was starting to feel justly castigated for his earlier criticisms. The longer the admiral went on, the more foolish the commander felt.  
  
"Clay, when will you be heading down?"  
  
The three military lawyers waited for Webb's response, but the agent was lost in his own thoughts near the hearth. Pained thoughts known only to him. Chegwidden hoped that would change before he allowed Webb to leave this night.  
  
"Webb," Chegwidden called. The agent turned, pushing the lock of hair back that had fallen over his right eye, embarrassed that he had drifted from the conversation.  
  
"The colonel wants to know when you'll be joining them in Miami."  
  
Webb walked back to A.J.'s desk.  
  
"I'll be arriving at about four o'clock tomorrow, Sarah." Chegwidden noted that Webb didn't even try to hide how tired he sounded; exhaustion dripped from every syllable.  
  
"That's kind of late," Rabb interjected.  
  
Chegwidden would have been surprised if the sigh from Clayton Webb had not been heard by Rabb and Mac, even without the benefit of a speaker phone. Webb sat opposite Chegwidden and dropped his head into his hands, massaging his forehead, leaning his elbows on his knees.  
  
"We're through here." Chegwidden frowned. Even with Webb's tired state the admiral would have expected some sort of clever, or at least curt retort from the spy. "It's late. Keep me posted on anything I need to know."  
  
"Aye, aye sir," Rabb responded.  
  
"Yes sir," the admiral heard Mac say as the two lawyers disconnected.  
  
Chegwidden watched Webb, who had not noticed that the conversation was over.  
  
"Webb, what's going on?"  
  
Webb raised his head to answer. He smiled and said, "How do you work with him day in and day out?"  
  
Chegwidden chuckled easily when he replied, "Fortunately I don't have to. Sometimes you take custody and I get a breather."  
  
Webb grinned, though the admiral noted that the humor did not make it to the operative's eyes. "Yeah, well, you have custody more often than I do. I wonder how you make it through a whole week with him sometimes."  
  
"I don't know, Clay. My understanding is that you and Rabb have worked out your differences. You invited him to your place in France."  
  
"We have. But being friends with Harm is far different from working with him. He questions everything. And of course he's always right," Webb added sarcastically.  
  
Chegwidden was glad to see the sarcasm back; it seemed more like the old Webb. "I've worked with Rabb for a lot of years now. The fact is he has the keenest investigator's sense of anyone I've ever worked with. It's the reason you request him as often as you do," Chegwidden added knowingly as he pulled his overcoat on. "It's why you asked for him this time. And he's an eloquent and talented lawyer. And damned if he isn't usually right."  
  
Webb joined the admiral in donning his own familiar outwear as they headed through the now empty operations area.  
  
"I know. It's uncanny," he replied with amused admiration.  
  
Chegwidden looked at the man before him and said, "You didn't answer my question."  
  
"I didn't?" Webb asked tiredly.  
  
"No, you didn't Webb, and you know you didn't. What's going on?"  
  
"Oh, that question. Nothing A.J.," the spy said as the pair entered the elevator. "Just tired."  
  
Chegwidden eyed Webb suspiciously. The CIA man rubbed his eyes, and then noticed the admiral staring him down.  
  
"Really," Webb tried to answer convincingly.  
  
"Okay. If you say so. But I know you haven't had dinner, neither have I. Wanna join me?" Chegwidden thought that by corralling him for dinner he'd have the chance to delve into what was really bothering the agent.  
  
"It's late, A.J."  
  
"I know it is, Webb. That's no reason not to eat."  
  
"I'm tired?" Webb tried.  
  
Chegwidden slapped the CIA agent on the back and said, "I won't keep you long. You'll be home and asleep in bed by first weather."  
  
Webb followed the admiral to his car and said, "Probably not," almost under his breath.  
  
Almost.  
  
********  
  
2210 Zulu CIA Field Office Miami, FL  
  
"What is your problem?" Mac asked Rabb as they walked to their car.  
  
"I don't know what you're so upset about. The intel sucked."  
  
"So what?"  
  
"So what? Mac, don't you get tired of this? How often - " Mac was not interested in going over the same thing she'd just been forced to witness on the phone. She cut Rabb off.  
  
"You cannot be serious. You still believe you can blame one person on this intelligence failure, a failure, as you will recall the admiral reminding you, that did not hurt the operation at all."  
  
"It didn't help," Rabb insisted as they got into the car.  
  
"It did not compromise the mission, Harm. That's the point. And blaming it on Webb is just stupid."  
  
They drove for a while before Rabb finally said, "I'm sorry."  
  
Mac turned to look at her partner. She wondered how someone so smart with such good instincts could get some things so wrong.  
  
"I think you need to tell Clay that," she said.  
  
"I know. You hungry?"  
  
"Let's just go back to the hotel. We can grab something quick at the restaurant and then make it an early night, relatively speaking," she remarked with a yawn, another sixteen hour day in hot and humid Miami coming to an end.  
  
"It'll be nice to get to bed before midnight."  
  
"Harm, could you call Clay tonight?"  
  
"That apology can't wait until tomorrow?" Rabb asked with decided irritation.  
  
"No, I don't think it can."  
  
"I'm going to see him in less than twenty-four hours, Mac," Rabb reasoned as he parked the car in front of the hotel.  
  
"Do what you think is best, Harm," Mac said, not hiding the disappointment in her JAG partner. "I'm going to get something to go," she continued, opening the door and slipping out without waiting to hear her partner's reply. The slam of the door said everything she wanted to say about what she thought best.  
  
Rabb watched as Mac stormed across the street, and then down the sidewalk to the foyer of the restaurant, finally disappearing into the darkness of the eatery. He sat thinking of the frustrations of the day, the lack of progress so far with the operation, the wall of resistance that Mac and the admiral had put up in defense of his CIA friend. The realization was suddenly clear: he always placed the blame on Webb when one of their joint ventures went awry.  
  
Sure, Webb had messed up in the past, but the fact was that more often than not Webb had provided the vital piece of information on a case, or had helped Rabb in a far more personal way more times than he had ever screwed up a case – or screwed he and Mac in the process.  
  
Harmon Rabb made himself comfortable in the rental car as he recognized what the next best step was.  
  
********  
  
2248 Zulu JAG Headquarters Falls Church, VA  
  
"Thanks, A.J. For listening." Webb said as Chegwidden pulled up beside the operative's BMW in the JAG headquarters parking lot.  
  
"I'm always available for that. Tim passed you on to me, damn his soul," Chegwidden joshed, eliciting the first true laugh of the evening from Clayton Webb.  
  
"It's just like Tim to wield his weight, even after he's gone."  
  
"If anybody could, Tim Fawkes could." Chegwidden smiled at the younger man. As he'd gotten to know the man before him better over the years, it became more and more clear just what Tim Fawkes had seen worthy of mentoring those many years ago.  
  
The ringer from a mobile phone broke off the friendly reminiscing about their recently deceased friend. Webb looked at the display and snorted lightly, showing the name and number to Chegwidden.  
  
"Well, I guess you won't be getting to sleep as soon as we thought," the admiral observed.  
  
"Guess not," Webb replied. "Webb," he answered into the phone.  
  
"Webb, it's Rabb."  
  
"Yeah. Hold on just a second," he said to the caller from Florida. "A.J., thanks for dinner, and the conversation. It helped."  
  
"I hope so. Goodnight, Clay," the admiral said, shaking the younger man's hand. Webb closed the door to the admiral's car and lifted the phone to his ear as he walked to his own vehicle, his overcoat blowing in the wind of the post rain shower breeze.  
  
"Yeah, Harm. What can I do for you?"  
  
"Was that the admiral?" Rabb asked.  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact it was. We just finished having a very late dinner," the reference to the earlier telephone conversation clear.  
  
Rabb did not take the bait. "What'd you talk about?"  
  
"What else? We talked about you, Harm," Webb chided his friend.  
  
"Really? Have anything nice to say?" Rabb thought he'd give it a try, even though he knew Webb would not accept the challenge.  
  
"Believe it or not Rabb, I'm a little too tired to be playing games this late. What did you need?" Rabb heard no anger in the tone, though he did hear the tiredness coming through loud and clear.  
  
"Clay, are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah. Sorry. I'm fine. I've been working a lot, getting this operation set up."  
  
"Are you sleeping?" Rabb knew that his friend had been suffering through some lingering problems from his time in Paraguay. Though the physical injuries had healed, more often than not the CIA agent was not making it through the night without nightmares. It was something Rabb would not have known about if Webb had not fallen asleep one night after the two had enjoyed a few beers and jammed a little at the Navy man's loft about a month earlier.  
  
"Not right now."  
  
"That's not what I meant."  
  
"I, uh, I think I might sleep better tonight if I could actually get home. My car's not exactly suited for that activity."  
  
Rabb didn't miss the fact that Webb avoided answering the question. Webb was quite accomplished at the diversion game, though this time it was a less than stealthy effort. Rabb decided not to push it, for now.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"It's okay." Webb knew Harm was concerned about him. The Navy commander had made that clear ever since that night when they broke down each other's defenses, the guitar their weapon of choice for that campaign. It had been another beginning for them. They'd had many opportunities to advance their friendship in the past, chances that neither chose to act upon or were otherwise thwarted by one or the other.  
  
But that night had been different. Their shared love of music had helped. The many beers they'd downed had also worked wonders in relaxing the men. But Harm's understanding and concerned ear when Webb had experienced a frightening nightmare after they'd both nodded off acted as a catalyst for advancing their relationship. Somehow Harm knew just how to handle the situation; he'd had an innate understanding that Webb would need to talk but would not be open to physical comfort, not that Rabb would have been all that comfortable in that role. Webb would be forever grateful for Harm's being there when he'd needed to talk. It had helped more than all of the counseling of the last months in helping him forget about the pain and fear of the torture and ease his mind in order to sleep a little better most nights.  
  
"Rabb? You still there?" The spy knocked the phone on his dash to get the Navy lawyer's attention. "Rabb, what'd you call for?" Webb had not started his car, not the least bit confident that he would have enough strength or concentration to navigate the drive from Falls Church to Alexandria and a conversation with Rabb at the same time.  
  
"Oh, um, sorry Clay. I just wanted to apologize for the way I reacted earlier. If Mac hadn't set me straight after we hung up with you, the admiral's words did make me realize how wrong I was to blame you for the mix-up. I'm sorry."  
  
Clay was surprised by the admission, and having some trouble getting any words past the lump now making itself comfortable in the back of his throat. Fatigue and surprise at Rabb's sincerity had combined to put the operative at a loss for words.  
  
"Webb, are you still there?"  
  
Webb tried to speak, still finding it difficult. His emotions were on edge, he knew, both from the stresses of putting this mission together, the worry of messing up another operation, the lack of sleep, so many things. He knew he was strong enough, recovered enough to do the work, but the drain the whole effort was placing on his psyche was threatening to push him over the top.  
  
Rabb saying something nice to him was threatening to do the same thing.  
  
"Hello? Webb, did I lose you?"  
  
Webb cleared his throat, finding his voice enough to say, "No. I'm here." There was a long pause and then a simple, "Apology accepted."  
  
"Okay. Go home, Clay. Sleep. Call me if you need to."  
  
Again, more kind words from Rabb. What was this and why couldn't he just accept it and see it for what it was. His intelligence work over the years had taught Webb to question everything, which his mind insisted on doing with these few earnest comments from his friend.  
  
He had a long way to go to be comfortable sharing a friendship with someone.  
  
"Okay. See you tomorrow, Harm."  
  
"Good night, Clay."  
  
********  
  
1210 Zulu Webb's townhouse Alexandria, VA  
  
Clay looked at his watch. 'Where the hell was he?' the spy thought. Chegwidden knew that Webb had a flight to catch. The files the admiral had asked Webb to carry down to Rabb were of little consequence to the spy; they were for a court-martial that Rabb would be defending the following week. Webb had already waited ten minutes beyond his limit for getting to the airport in time.  
  
He could wait no longer. The operative grabbed his bag and headed out of his townhouse. The dreary morning had not gotten any better by the time he left Langley; he had gone into the office early, the combination of a bad night's sleep and needing to tie up a few loose ends putting him in the office by six, long before the sun had risen. The streets were wet, a fine mist greeting him as he made his way to the CIA headquarters.  
  
After he responded to a few emails and returned some calls, Webb headed back to his house in Alexandria to pack and shower and catch his flight for Miami. He received a call from Chegwidden just as he walked in the door to his home.  
  
"Yeah, A.J. I'm kind of in a rush."  
  
"Could you drive by Falls Church and pick up some paperwork for Rabb and take it down to him?"  
  
"Actually I can't. I'm home, I'm running late as it is. I'm trying to catch a quick shower now."  
  
"I'll bring it by," Chegwidden offered.  
  
"You sure? Can't you send Roberts. Or a courier?"  
  
"No. This is a pretty high profile case, and Mr. Roberts is in court. I'll be by in about twenty, twenty-five minutes."  
  
Webb checked his watch. "No later, A.J. That'll be cutting it close."  
  
"I'm on my way."  
  
Within a half an hour of the end of that conversation, Webb had unlocked the trunk and placed the suitcase in the small compartment. He checked his watch one more time as he closed the lid, and then looked down the road for any sign of A.J. As he closed the driver's side door and put his keys in the ignition, he saw the admiral stop his car and quickly make his way across the street to Webb, a large expandable folder in his right hand.  
  
Webb turned the key just enough to allow the power to work, opening the driver's side window at the same moment that A.J. reached the car.  
  
"You're late," Webb admonished, reaching his hand out for the documents.  
  
"I know that, Webb. Traffic in this town sucks."  
  
"Traffic in Alexandria, A.J.?" Chegwidden glared at the spy and handed the documents over, but the file hit the door's edge and fell out from Chegwidden's grasp before Webb had the chance to grab hold. The folder fell to the pavement.  
  
Chegwidden reached for the file, but found it had slipped slightly under Webb's sports car, just beyond easy reach.  
  
"Oh, hell," Chegwidden said. "Webb, have you got something, a towel or something I can use?"  
  
"Sure, A.J. I'm gonna miss my flight. I think the lube job can wait until I get back."  
  
"Such biting wit, Webb. I don't know how you stand yourself." Webb raised his eyebrow and cocked his head, accepting the ersatz compliment. The admiral took the offered cloth and knelt down on it, reaching for the troublesome file. He stopped cold at what he saw.  
  
Moments passed, Webb's frustration mounting.  
  
"What're you doing down there?"  
  
"Don't move, Clay."  
  
"What the hell, A.J." Webb shook his head, the look of disgust for his own benefit as Chegwidden's head remained firmly transfixed on the bottom of Webb's BMW.  
  
"There's a bomb under your car."  
  
"A bomb?" The realization of what that meant immediately replaced the disgust and frustration Webb had felt seconds before. Concern for A.J. and fear for the two of them replaced both earlier emotions.  
  
"Where's the key?"  
  
"In the ignition. In the 'on' position."  
  
"Damn."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Don't move, Clay. This bomb was probably set to go once you placed that key in the on position. There's no going back. By the looks of it, it's also got a meter measuring weight, so if you don't start the car and try to get out, that'll set it off, too."  
  
"Then you better step away and call the bomb squad," Webb suggested calmly, though he felt anything but.  
  
"Can't do that either," Chegwidden informed as he stood up. "Whoever planted this wasn't taking any chances. There's three minutes and counting on a timer down there. We've got to get you out of this car."  
  
"Any suggestions?"  
  
"Yeah." Chegwidden started across the street to his vehicle. "Don't move."  
  
"I got it, A.J." Webb said, nervous energy telling him to just jump out of the car and hope for the best, training and common sense shouting that he hold off until the admiral returned to explain his plan.  
  
Chegwidden ran back from his car, his arms loaded down with gear.  
  
"I'm opening the door, Webb." He proceeded to do just that as he continued to explain what would happen next. "I've got a flak jacket. Lean forward." The admiral slid the jacket over Webb's left arm, and placed the rest over the agent's back. Webb put his right arm through the other opening.  
  
"I'm going to tie this rope to you," Chegwidden continued as he did so, a lasso around the CIA man's chest tightened while the admiral continued with his plan. "We'll need a little room here," he explained as he stepped back, wrapping the rope around both their chests for a sort of pulley effect. "On my count of three I'm gonna pull you out of the car. Don't resist. You're gonna fly. I'm gonna have to heave hard to get you outta there. Fair warning. You may get bumped. But believe me, our best bet to get us both out of this alive is if you relax."  
  
"Relax," Webb said, confident in his friend's best effort, but doubtful of the rescue's success.  
  
"Yes, relax Webb. Take a couple of deep breaths and then close your eyes and think of something relaxing." Chegwidden watched Webb's face closely as the operative followed his instructions. "Ready?"  
  
"Let's do it." Webb and Chegwidden exchanged trusting glances, hoping and praying that they would see each other again after these last, long looks.  
  
"One," A.J. started, looking into Webb's eyes, his own apprehension about the success of this plan mirrored back to him in the agent's face. "Eyes closed, Clay."  
  
"Two," the admiral continued, adjusting his grip on the rope, the cold weather gloves he had used on his last hunting trip coming in especially handy this day.  
  
"Three!" Chegwidden heaved the rope, surprised at how easily Webb came out of the car. The Navy man turned his back immediately in an effort to protect himself from the worst of the blast. The force of the explosion did much to propel the two men away from the car, the opened door to the sporty convertible widening the bomb's spread, which in the end helped to keep the two men alive.  
  
Webb and Chegwidden slammed hard into the front lawn of Webb's townhouse, the only luck either man would have that day.  
  
Chegwidden hit the ground first, followed quickly by Webb, who landed hard on the JAG lawyer and immediately did his best to cover his friend. Flaming pieces of car flew over and landed around them, black billowing smoke quickly engulfing the remains of the car's chassis. Chegwidden struggled under the weight of the spy, moaning as the effects of being thrown by a bomb and slammed hard into the ground by the five foot ten inch frame of the CIA agent became known.  
  
"Webb?" he asked weakly, choking immediately from the smoke drifting from the skeleton of Clayton Webb's car and into his throat.  
  
The admiral received no answer, though he heard the coughing coming from his cohort.  
  
Chegwidden quickly realized that the noxious smoke was now their worst enemy, though Webb's semi-conscious state was a close second. Though his body was not willing, Chegwidden's survival instincts forced it into action, moving out from under the struggling operative. Webb was becoming more awake, but only because his body was reacting violently to the smoke; Chegwidden did not know what other injuries he may have suffered in the explosion, though it was clear that Webb was not functioning at full capacity.  
  
The Navy man rose and grabbed Webb with his left arm, his right arm, Chegwidden now realized, hung limply at his side, incapacitated and probably broken. Webb straightened to escape the remains of the explosion and his car's smoky shell, but quickly fell back down, his Alexandria neighborhood spinning sickeningly around him. Chegwidden pulled him closer and dragged them both nearer to Webb's front steps, upwind from the nasty black cloud making its way down the pretty Washington suburban street. The immediate area was butchered and bleak, the charred surroundings reminiscent of many a village the former Navy SEAL had left behind so many years ago in Vietnam.  
  
Chegwidden knew the police would be coming soon. He saw little point in contacting any other authorities, deciding that he'd let local law enforcement take care of informing the other appropriate agencies; his phone had probably been crushed under the weight of the two men anyway. His first concern now was checking on his listless friend.  
  
"Webb, how're you doing?" he asked. Clayton Webb sat on his front step, leaning against the column that supported the roof of his front porch. Webb's eyes were glassy, though it was hard to tell if the effect was due to a hit to the head or simply the tears from the smoke that still hung in the air.  
  
"Webb?" The agent stared directly past the Navy man, watching what remained of his car continue to burn. He was now conscious, Chegwidden was glad to see, though he seemed miles away, probably in shock, though no other symptoms of shock seemed obvious. "Clay. Are you okay?"  
  
Webb blinked his eyes several times, the tears that had pooled falling down his cheeks, streaking the black soot that had come to rest on his face. He reached to rub at his eyes, though Chegwidden stopped the movement.  
  
"It'll sting worse if you do that. Wait 'til the EMTs get here. They'll clean it off for you."  
  
"Damn it. I didn't think..." he started, but a violent cough stopped the thought.  
  
"Take it easy, Clay. Don't talk. You sucked in a lot..." Chegwidden too was unable to finish as the smoke he had swallowed wreaked similar havoc with his own lungs.  
  
The sirens got louder as first the police, and then fire and other emergency vehicles swarmed the area. Plain clothes police cordoned off the street as the firefighters worked on the last of the flames coming from the car.  
  
Chegwidden's coughing subsided even as Webb's last coughing spasm continued far longer than the admiral liked. The operative was also now holding his head and tilting it well right. The Navy man moved back to check where Webb's hand rested. He pushed the agent forward slightly to get a better look. Webb, his equilibrium shot, pitched forward and fell off the step toward the sidewalk. Chegwidden caught him just in time, a groan emanating from the admiral's charge.  
  
"Whoa, Webb. Easy."  
  
"Man. Something hit my head. Everything's spinnin'. Uuuuuh." Webb fell back. Chegwidden grabbed him and helped lay him down on the front stoop.  
  
"Come on, Webb. Stay with me until the medics get here." The admiral looked up to see a detective, two uniformed officers and two EMTs heading his way.  
  
"Over here. This man just passed out. I think something hit his head when the car exploded. He was semi-conscious earlier, and he's sucked in a lot of smoke."  
  
"Okay. Thanks for the update. Bill will take care of your friend. How're you?" the second EMT asked, taking a pen light to check his patient's pupil reactions. Satisfied with what he found, he moved on to the damaged arm.  
  
"A little shaken. I think my arm's broken." Chegwidden said it matter of factly, as though it was all in a day's work to be involved in an explosion and suffer broken bones because of it. "Isn't there something you can do to help your partner with Webb?"  
  
"Is that his name?"  
  
"Yeah. Clayton Webb. Clay."  
  
"Bill, the guy's name is Clay."  
  
"Roger that, Jack. He's coming to. Clay, come on, you're doing good."  
  
Webb groaned and then said, "Really? It doesn't feel like it." He started to sit up. Bill the EMT eased him back down with a slight hand to his chest.  
  
"Not just yet, Clay. You took some shrapnel behind your ear. Just relax and we'll get you over to emergency right away."  
  
"I got a plane to catch," Webb complained, though he made no subsequent attempts to rise from his prone position.  
  
"You can catch one in the morning, so long as the doctor's clear you."  
  
"Thanks, A.J. Since when did you become my mother?"  
  
That was the sign Chegwidden was looking for. Though he may have suffered a concussion, the sarcastic, quick wit that typified the CIA man's personality came through loud and clear and was the signal the admiral sought: Webb was not too seriously hurt.  
  
********  
  
1745 Zulu Chaco's Diner Miami, FL  
  
"Yes sir. Okay. We'll stick it out down here until we hear from you or Webb. Aye, aye sir."  
  
Rabb ended the call on his mobile phone. He watched as the morning sun lit Mac's worried features.  
  
"Are they okay?" she asked. She had only heard Harm's end of the conversation, though it was clear from his side alone that something bad had happened.  
  
"Relatively speaking. The admiral has a broken arm and a couple of bruised ribs. Webb collided with a piece of his car during the explosion. He's got a slight concussion and a deep cut – it needed eighteen stitches."  
  
"God. What do they know?"  
  
"Not much. The admiral spotted the bomb under Webb's car. The car was parked in his driveway at home. They think it was planted while he was showering."  
  
"Nobody saw anything? I can't believe that someone could have gotten away unseen."  
  
"They're still canvassing, but the fact is it was late morning. Most people were at work. And there's walls and landscaping, and even if there wasn't, it would just have looked like someone working on his car to anybody walking by."  
  
"Yeah. Does Webb think this is related to our case?"  
  
"I don't know. The doctors haven't let the authorities talk to him yet. Chegwidden thinks it is, though."  
  
"It pretty much has to be. He hasn't worked anything big since..." She trailed off, both she and Rabb understanding the unspoken reference.  
  
Rabb watched the emotions wash over Mac's face. The Marine colonel had become very close with Clayton Webb following their shared close call in South America, their relationship having moved to a romantic one for some period during and after Webb's recovery. Though their closeness had not changed, the romantic nature of it had. Rabb knew they had cooled that aspect of their relationship, and he understood the reasons why.  
  
The spy and the colonel had agreed that starting a romantic relationship on the basis of such extreme circumstances in their lives was, at a minimum, unwise. And they both worried about the speed with which they had progressed that side of the relationship. More than anything, they did not want to jeopardize their friendship, which above all else had been the true heart of their survival in Paraguay.  
  
But Rabb knew that the decision was an interim one, and that there was every possibility that the relationship could heat up again. He knew that was what Clay wanted; he was still unable to read his partner's feelings on the topic. And to say that Rabb himself was conflicted over the entire affair would be a classic understatement. Even if the romance did not heat up again, there was something about Mac since she'd been with Clay that had changed – a confidence in herself, in her worth as a whole that had been missing on occasion before this time. Her bearing was surer than ever, and her comfort in being the beautiful and brilliant Sarah MacKenzie made her even more appealing, if that was possible.  
  
Whether he liked it or not, Harmon Rabb could not deny the positive effect Clayton Webb was having on his Marine partner.  
  
"Don't worry, Mac. Webb's had to overcome far worse injuries than a bump to the head and a concussion."  
  
"I know. But you said the police hadn't spoken to him yet." Mac's big brown eyes mirrored the worry in her voice.  
  
"You know how it is with head injuries. They're putting him through x-rays and a battery of tests to make sure he's okay, that's all. He's probably driving the ER staff crazy as we speak."  
  
"He shouldn't come down here. He shouldn't travel with a concussion."  
  
"If he can't travel I'm sure the doctors will make that clear," Rabb said, though he thought silently that Clay was as unlikely as he was to adhere to any such warning with the resolution to this espionage case so close at hand.  
  
"Look, we have work to do," Rabb continued. "The admiral will call with any news. Let's go see if our friends are meeting tonight. Maybe Webb's intel wasn't wrong, just off by a day or two."  
  
"What would make an Army general, a man who had made the military his life and had dedicated himself to serving his country, sell secrets?" Mac forced herself back into the case at hand. She had questioned more than once her role in the Marines, whether the Corps was truly her calling, but she had never once questioned her commitment to serving her country. Nor had her Navy partner, who had gone so far as to resign his commission, though the pain of severing those ties had hung over Harm for every single day that he was separated from the Navy that he loved.  
  
Neither of them would ever give a thought to selling the security of the country they loved and felt compelled to protect.  
  
Webb had come to Chegwidden less than a week ago with details too convincing to ignore. A two star general with regular dealings at Guantanamo Bay had been seen in the Little Havana section of Miami passing documents to a known Russian spy and an identified close associate of Fidel Castro. The mere presence of a United States Army general with these two men would have been enough to begin an inquiry into his activities, but surveillance photos had provided a far more disturbing scenario than the three military personnel sitting before Webb would have been willing to believe without the damning pictures.  
  
Subsequent investigation had determined that the general had dealt a severe blow to national security with his actions.  
  
Mac thumbed through the photos again. She passed them over to Rabb, who finished his coffee and apple pie while eyeing the images.  
  
"These documents he passed are undeniably damaging. The importance of the security breach in regard to the Norcroft project in future military engagements is one thing, but all of the other documents that the CIA believes have been passed to Russia and the former Soviet Union – this guy's been at it long enough to have done as much, or maybe more damage than Aldrich Ames."  
  
"He's been pretty clever about it, too. You've got to be pretty high profile to reach two stars yet he's still managed his side job working for the Russians." Mac shook her head, finishing off her coffee.  
  
"He might have had accomplices over the years."  
  
"Could be," Mac replied as she paid for their meal.  
  
The pair left the small Cuban restaurant. As they entered the car, Rabb said, "He was real smart about the money. He didn't spend it – no Jaguar in the driveway likes Ames, no vacation home in the Caribbean. Just left it in an off shore account waiting for his retirement."  
  
"All that stealth isn't going to keep him out of Leavenworth," Mac said, the anger at the despicable actions of a fellow military officer not at all suppressed in her tone.  
  
"Maybe we'll get lucky and the meeting will take place tonight. We'll catch him in the act and be rewarded with a nice relaxing weekend in the sun." Rabb smiled at Mac, the boyish enthusiasm rubbing off on her, causing a returned smile of equal brilliance.  
  
"Let's not get too excited, flyboy."  
  
********  
  
0642 Zulu Rabb's room, Raleigh Hotel Miami Beach, FL  
  
"I'm telling you he's headed down there."  
  
"He can't be," Mac insisted.  
  
"He is, so keep an eye out for him. And keep a close eye on him while he's down there."  
  
"But you said last night they were going to keep him for observation." Rabb and Mac's last call the day before with the admiral had taken place just following their surveillance of the suspected meet area where General Lucas Armstrong was expected to pass along the next series of plans for the Norcroft project.  
  
"They did. He signed himself out around four this morning. I've got Lieutenant Roberts tracking down which flight, but I suspect he took the first direct one down there."  
  
'Shit,' Rabb thought. This was just what they needed: Webb at less than one hundred percent and Mac worried about him, when all of their focus should be on catching Armstrong red handed.  
  
"Admiral, can't the CIA send someone to intercept Webb and order him off the case, just for now? For that matter, can't you order him off?"  
  
"Harm," Mac warned.  
  
"No Mr. Rabb, even if I had that authority I wouldn't do that. This is Webb's baby. If Mr. Webb thinks he's up to this, he'd surely be able to convince his superiors that he is. He is THAT good. And I am definitely not inclined to intervene here. It won't be the first time one of you has worked through a mild concussion." 'It would certainly explain a lot,' Chegwidden thought to himself wryly.  
  
Rabb knew it was true about the concussions, and since he was getting a soft sell from Mac and a hard sell from his superior on the subject, the Navy commander decided to let the suggestion die.  
  
"Yes sir," Rabb said into the speaker phone.  
  
"Just arrange to pick him up. One of you stay with him for the next while."  
  
"He's gonna love that," Rabb said, barely under his breath.  
  
"Just do it, Rabb," Chegwidden ordered.  
  
"Aye, aye sir."  
  
"I'm home today if you need me. Doctor's orders. This cast is going to drive me nuts."  
  
"How are you feeling otherwise, sir?" Mac asked.  
  
"Lucky to be alive, Colonel."  
  
"We're glad about that too, sir," Rabb offered.  
  
"Thanks. Let me know when you've tracked down Webb. You can let him know that I'm going to kick his ass when I see him."  
  
"That will be my pleasure, Admiral," Rabb offered willingly.  
  
"Goodbye, Rabb." The admiral hung up.  
  
"Well Mac, do you want to pick him up or baby-sit him?"  
  
"What is wrong with you? I've had to deal with you more than once doing something similarly stupid. Take a look in the mirror, Harm."  
  
"Are you coming with me or not?" Rabb asked, matching his irritation with that of his partner.  
  
"Don't forget your room key," Mac returned as she headed out the door. Harm found her a few minutes later standing next to the rental car.  
  
"Sorry," Rabb apologized, handing Mac a coffee as a peace offering.  
  
"It's okay. Look, can you just try to be civil? That's all I ask."  
  
"I can try."  
  
Mac rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently, knowing that was the best she could expect from her stubborn cohort.  
  
********  
  
1020 Zulu Miami International Airport Miami, FL  
  
What do you think you're doing?" Mac demanded of her tired friend, barely giving him a chance to step foot inside the terminal.  
  
"I'm coming down to catch a traitor. What was I supposed to do, let you two get all the glory?" Webb asked, his lighthearted attempt to masquerade the pain and exhaustion a waste of time with Sarah MacKenzie; she had grown to know him far too well these last months to be so easily fooled.  
  
"I think we can take time to get you checked in at the hotel and then grab some lunch," Rabb said, relieving Webb of the garment bag he carried wearily away from the gate, his rolling suiter having been destroyed like everything else in his treasured sports car.  
  
"Any news on Armstrong?" Webb asked, ignoring the suggestion, though grateful enough to be relieved of his burden that he offered his Navy friend silent thanks in the form of an appreciative grin.  
  
'He looks terrible', Mac thought as they walked toward the terminal exit.  
  
"No," Rabb answered. "We spent over four hours waiting again last night. Nothing. And no muggers this time, either."  
  
"Harm, I thought you were going to try to behave," Mac asked, frowning at her partner.  
  
"I didn't exactly agree to that."  
  
"You said you'd try to be civil," Mac reminded him.  
  
"I said I'd try."  
  
Webb watched the two lawyers bicker. They often acted far more like a divorcing couple than accomplished adversaries. He could not watch for long, though, as trying to keep up with the verbal volleyball was threatening to make him dizzy, and he didn't need that – the pounding in his head was already bad enough.  
  
Mac noticed Webb's slight change in demeanor; the lingering effects of the concussion were catching up with her favorite spy. She walked closer to Clay and wrapped her hand around his arm.  
  
"I think you need a nap."  
  
"I don't need a nap, Sarah."  
  
"If you want to join us tonight to try and get Armstrong you're going to have to. There's no way you'll last the night in your current condition." The pleading brown eyes ruined her effort to take command, though in the end it was exactly those eyes, and not the tone that convinced Clayton Webb to abide by Lt. Colonel Sarah MacKenzie's rules.  
  
"Fine. I'll nap," Webb whined, indignantly. "But someone has to go see Lorenzo Orgeta. He has some information for us. I talked to him early this morning."  
  
"This morning? How early? Your flight was at seven," Rabb noted.  
  
"Very early," Webb answered with great irritation. "He's an informant, Harm," Webb scolded, slowing his pace and rubbing his forehead firmly. Mac and Rabb exchanged a quick glance, seeing that their friend was losing energy fast. "He doesn't get to practice banker's hours."  
  
"Will he see someone other than you?" Mac asked softly, still walking arm in arm with Webb, unable to ignore the occasional listing of the agent's stride.  
  
"Yeah," he said as they stopped just before the sliding glass exit door. "I told him that it might not be me coming to see him."  
  
"I'll meet him," Rabb decided. "Mac, you take Clay to the hotel and put him to bed." Webb and Mac looked at each other and laughed lightly.  
  
"You know what I mean," Rabb grinned back.  
  
"Works for me," Webb said lightly, though he quickly turned serious. "I don't know what Ortega has to tell us. Just be careful. Make sure you're not followed. And don't blow his cover. He's an important informant down here. The Miami bureau will have my head if his cover is blown. If you screw this up, my life will be a living hell, these guys down here will make sure of it."  
  
Webb proceeded to tell Rabb how to contact Ortega to finalize a meeting.  
  
"Be careful," Mac said with concern, reaching out to grasp Harm's forearm, then moving down to hold his hand tightly.  
  
"I will," Rabb returned, releasing her hand. "I'll see you both later this afternoon." He handed Webb's bag back to him.  
  
"I'll take that," Mac said, stepping between the two to grab the luggage.  
  
"No you won't," Webb insisted.  
  
"I'm outta here," Rabb said, leaving Webb to fight his own battle with Mac.  
  
"Clay, I can tell you don't feel well. And you've been limping for a while now. What's wrong with your leg?"  
  
"Knocked my knee in the explosion," he admitted tiredly, Chegwidden's prophesy of getting banged up having come agonizingly true. "It's just bruised," which was also true, though it hurt like hell.  
  
"Let's grab a cab," Mac ordered with frustration.  
  
********  
  
1215 Zulu Webb's suite, Raleigh Hotel Miami Beach, FL  
  
"You're kidding."  
  
"I would not kid about this, Clay."  
  
"I don't need a babysitter, Sarah."  
  
"Just lie down and close your eyes. Why are you fighting me on this?"  
  
Webb shook his head slightly. "I don't know. I like to think I can fight my own battles and take care of myself. I am a grown boy after all." He smiled, trying his best to show Mac that he was okay, in spite of the way he actually felt.  
  
"I think you do fine in that regard, Clay. But someone tried to kill you yesterday. I'd feel better hanging out while you sleep."  
  
"I would too, Sarah, to be honest. Thanks." Clay rose from the bed and went to Mac, placing a sweet, chaste kiss on her forehead.  
  
"To bed, young man," she laughed, watching with admiration as the t-shirt and boxers-clad man moved away from her and made himself comfortable under the coolness of the sheets and the summer blanket. She was thankful that Clay had reserved a suite, as the snoring would very soon have driven her insane had she not been able to shut the door.  
  
Mac made a cup of tea and sat to review all of the documents Webb supplied on Armstrong's traitorous ways. She knew she was unlikely to find anything new; she and Harm and Clay had been over the dossier many times. But unlike Harm, who often came up with a revelation on a case after one quick review of a file, Mac was prone to come up with a new perspective after everyone else had long given up hope.  
  
The colonel could be every bit the devil-dog when she needed to be.  
  
Mac grabbed for her mug and realized it was empty. She stood to make another cup but heard some noise coming from the bedroom. She stopped and listened closely, not wanting to barge in if Clay was indisposed in the bathroom, though what she'd heard sounded disturbingly like a yelp or cry of pain, soft though it was.  
  
She stood by the door. Very clearly this time Mac heard again what she had heard before, the proximity and her own more focused concentration left little doubt of what was going on behind the closed door. She opened the door quietly and saw for herself that Clay was in the midst of a troubled dream.  
  
Mac walked swiftly to the bed, reaching for Clay's cheek as he tossed his head back and forth on the damp pillow. His face felt wet, sweaty, though it also bore signs of tears. Mac felt immediate regret for having left him alone earlier.  
  
It killed Mac to see Clay like this. She had believed that he put much of this pain behind him. He had convinced her of it. She knew that Clay had slept better after he and Harm had settled their differences and worked so hard to gain back each others' friendship and trust.  
  
It seemed obvious to the Marine colonel that the violent and frightening explosion of the previous day had brought those bad dreams back full force.  
  
"Clay," she said loudly, knowing from experience that it would take some effort to pull the agent out of his deep sleep.  
  
"Clay!" she yelled louder, tapping his cheek a couple of times with her right hand as she soothingly rubbed the agent's chest with her left. His body jerked with what looked to Mac was the imagined electricity from Sadik's torture chamber pumping through him. That shocking movement scared Mac more than Webb's paleness or the sheen of sweat that seemed to adorn his entire body. The t-shirt clung to him, enhancing the muscled physique that had resulted from his intense efforts to get back in shape after the long period of hospitalization and rehab. The fact that he was reliving those days of torture these long months later was a painful reminder for Mac of Clayton Webb's sacrifice, a sacrifice she knew he had borne for her.  
  
But Mac also saw it as a testament to his great strength. He was back at work, which is something most people who had suffered that way would be hard pressed to accomplish. Clay's conscious mind had learned to overcome what the man endured under Sadik Fahd's demented hand. She realized watching him in sleep here that he still had a ways to go before his subconscious was truly healed.  
  
Webb stopped jerking his body and tossing his head and blinked his eyes open. He stared at Mac for a moment, and then looked away, closing his eyes as though he'd not seen her staring back at him.  
  
"Clay, are you okay?" Mac asked simply, fairly sure that he had not fallen back asleep.  
  
Webb lay unmoving and quiet. His breathing was nearing normal, though it seemed to Mac that this was a conscious effort to calm himself after his fitful sleep. He opened his eyes to look at her again, eyes filled with pain and something else that tore at the tough Marine colonel's caring heart.  
  
Mac had learned throughout Clay's recovery that he preferred not to show his pain and weakness in front of her. He had requested that she not visit during certain hours of the day following the physical therapy he was put through while still in the hospital and he never would let her in on where he was having his outpatient rehab.  
  
She had learned much later where Webb had convalesced through the most difficult period of his therapy, the intensive work that he went through to get his head on straight. Mac would forever love the south of France and its generous people who had nurtured him through that time while she could not.  
  
Clay had seemed so rejuvenated after their visit to Provence just a little over two months ago. Now he seemed so tired. Mac guessed that the dreams were back partly due to the stress of the espionage case he was working. This was the biggest spy case the United States had seen since Aldrich Ames, and Webb was the CIA point man for it. It seemed that Clay had not wanted to ask for help, that he most likely thought he could work through these returned dreams on his own. What had he said to her earlier: 'I like to think I can fight my own battles'.  
  
Damn.  
  
Webb watched Mac's face as all of these thoughts ran through her head. Too tired and disturbed to understand the changing emotions he saw, he turned on his side, away from Mac, and curled up, a heavy sigh and uncontrollable shiver coursing through him.  
  
Mac could take it no more.  
  
"Clay, what can I do to help?"  
  
"I don't know," he answered, a sad, and Mac knew, brutally honest answer.  
  
"You're not sleeping through the night again," she went on, rubbing his arm comfortingly.  
  
"No."  
  
"Is it always like this? Remembering the torture?"  
  
Another sigh, and then a reluctant, "Yes."  
  
Mac thought she knew why. Webb's failure to capture Sadik Fahd had much to do with it. The regret Webb carried with him over that failure was enormous. But Webb's biggest fear was that Sadik would come back and finish what he had not even really started with Mac. His suffering of repeated torture in his dreams was Clay's way of punishing himself for not ridding the world of this madman, and leaving both Mac and Rabb vulnerable to the same torture he had so bravely endured.  
  
For despite the screams of pain that Mac was forced to listen to night after night in the Chaco Boreal, Webb's persistence in maintaining their cover and offering himself as the only option for Sadik's torture would remain the bravest act she had ever witnessed.  
  
"You don't have to worry about me anymore, Clay. He can't get to me."  
  
"But he can, Sarah," Clay said sadly. Knowingly.  
  
"No he can't." She said the words, but she knew she was not successful in convincing Clay that they were true. She knew that with his head where it was today, the only closure Clay would find would be if Sadik Fahd was dead. Maybe later he would be in a better place again to accept that he had done his best, but he was not there now.  
  
She needed to do something to help him today, since it was obvious that this day Clayton Webb was indeed having trouble taking care of himself. She moved closer to him on the bed, leaning over him to try to gauge his reaction to her movements.  
  
"We'll be ready for him next time, if it ever happens. Right now I want you to relax," she continued, spooning up against him, wrapping her arm across his chest and massaging her fingers through his hair.  
  
Mac's easy breathing and relaxing massage worked as a comforting cocoon, soon putting the exhausted and hurting man into a deep sleep. Mac did not sleep initially, happy to rest her head up against the shoulder of the man who sacrificed so much to save her from the same torment.  
  
She promised herself to pay closer attention to Clay for the next while. They might not be dating anymore, but Clay meant more to her than anyone in her life right now, Harm included; his well-being needed to take a higher place in her life.  
  
********  
  
1645 Zulu La Esquina de Tejas Restaurant Little Havana, Miami, FL  
  
"What'd you find out from Ortega?" Webb asked as he worked on the plate of food in front of him.  
  
"Enough. The intel turns out to have been good, Clay. Sorry for doubting you," Rabb added apologetically.  
  
"Go on," Webb directed, not wanting to open that can of worms.  
  
"They were going to meet two days ago, but Malakov's wife got sick. He's spent the last two days in Havana with her. But he's back."  
  
"So when's the new meet?" Mac asked, working her way through a Cuban sandwich and a large plate of fried plantains.  
  
"Tonight, but the location has changed. Instead of the warehouse they'll be meeting at Maldonado's estate in Coral Gables."  
  
"Castro's buddy," Webb nodded with understanding. "Do we have the address?"  
  
"We do. But there could be a problem. There's security."  
  
"Security?" Webb asked. "What kind?"  
  
"The grounds are gated. The entrance has electronic security, but apparently most of the place is walled, with only barbed wire, no electric."  
  
"That doesn't sound so bad," Mac countered.  
  
"There's more. The house itself does have a security system. It's pretty much fifty-fifty whether they turn it on while they're in there. I don't think they have any reason yet to suspect anything, so it might not be on while they're meeting."  
  
"Anything else," Webb asked, taking a long, thirsty drink of his iced tea. Mac looked at him worriedly, knowing that his early release from the hospital and uneven sleep that afternoon gave him nowhere near the recovery time he needed from his injuries the day before.  
  
"There are dogs on the property."  
  
"Dogs we can handle. A nice, juicy steak with just the right seasoning of sleeping powder," Webb started.  
  
"The dogs, according to Ortega, have been trained not to take food off of the grounds or from strangers. Seems they've had a break-in attempt like that before," Rabb added as he finished his veggie burger.  
  
"How many dogs are there?"  
  
"Ortega thinks there's four."  
  
"Sounds like we might need a sacrifice," Mac offered.  
  
"A sacrifice?" Webb asked, confused.  
  
"Yeah. A sacrifice. Like a cat," Rabb suggested.  
  
"Or maybe something bigger, to keep them occupied longer," Mac suggested. "Maybe a lamb?"  
  
Webb looked back and forth between Mac and Rabb, the discussion beginning to turn his already queasy stomach. The smell of the grease in the restaurant had almost gotten him to the rest room once this afternoon. He placed his fork down and tossed his napkin over the almost empty plate.  
  
"Maybe we could count the sacrificing of small animals as our fall back position?" Webb asked the two before him. "How about we dangle a dummy with some meat in its pockets as a lure, make a little noise to get their attention, and then shoot them with tranquilizers?"  
  
"Oh. That's a good idea, Clay. Why didn't we think of that?" Mac asked as she smiled knowingly at Rabb.  
  
"Military blood lust?" Webb offered, and then he saw the look exchanged between Mac and Rabb. "Oh, so this was a little joke?"  
  
Rabb and Mac smiled at each other, the sacrificial lamb joke having worked beautifully on their CIA partner, though Mac was feeling a little guilty that it had turned Webb away from the rest of his lunch.  
  
"Glad you think so, Clay," Rabb laughed, rubbing the operative's shoulder gently, knowing Webb was still pretty sore all over from being tossed about by the explosion. "Hey, how's that gash on your head feel?"  
  
"Not great. Does it feel good playing your little joke on a wounded man?" Webb would never admit to either of his partners that he found the joke amusing. They really did get him good. But he was getting his own payback: his own private amusement in watching his JAG friends squirm. "Why don't we get going."  
  
Mac and Rabb did not miss the misdirection; Webb clearly did not want to discuss his injuries or how he came upon them. "Did Ortega say anything else?" the operative asked as he rose slowly from his chair, every part of his body screaming from the pummeling it had taken from the car bomb. It was getting near six o'clock. They would need to move out if they wanted to check the Coral Gables location before nightfall.  
  
"Nothing that we don't already know. Malakov always has at least one guard, as does Castro's buddy. Just as you had suggested, Clay."  
  
"That's five armed men against our three," Clay stated, smiling at Mac, their third 'man'. "We need to be on our toes."  
  
"Let's go get this done," Rabb said as they left the restaurant.  
  
********  
  
1920 Zulu Maldonado estate Coral Gables, FL  
  
"Nice equipment, Webb."  
  
"Only the best from the CIA."  
  
"Can we leave the admiration of Clay's equipment for later?" Mac's eyes grew large as she realized how that sounded.  
  
"I can," Rabb agreed, his attempt to hide his smirk unsuccessful.  
  
"What I meant was this meat stinks. Let's put these dogs to sleep."  
  
"Over there," Rabb pointed, still laughing at his Marine partner. He noticed a lingering grin on Webb's face as well. "That small cluster of trees will give us a little cover."  
  
"Let's get the rope set up," Webb urged.  
  
"Just sit tight, Clay. Mac and I can do this. Save your strength for the climb." Webb gave the commander a dirty look, but silently sat out the set- up of the makeshift ladder.  
  
Mac made her way up the rope first and snipped a large section of the prickly wire atop the deep, stucco-faced wall. Rabb tossed a thick, wool blanket up to place on the remains of the wire. Mac lowered another rope and Webb tied a tote onto it. The bag was loaded with guns as well as the lure for the dogs. Then the two men made their way to the top of the wall, Webb's journey complicated by the painful bruising about his knee.  
  
Once all three were in place, Mac and Rabb took the tranquilizer guns from the bag and Webb prepared to lower the bait.  
  
"That's the best the CIA could come up with?" Rabb asked.  
  
"It's what you get with fifteen minutes notice." Webb swayed slightly as both Rabb and Mac reached out to steady their friend.  
  
"You okay, Clay?" Rabb asked with alarm.  
  
"It's nothing avoiding car bombs in the future won't cure." Webb took a deep, steadying breath. "Let's get this over with."  
  
Webb dangled the meat-covered, giant, stuffed, red Clifford dog over the edge. They waited a few minutes, hoping they could avoid making any noise to try to get the dogs within their sites. They waited about ten minutes when the scent finally did its job. The dogs snarled and barked just below their perch.  
  
"We have to shut them up now," Webb said, the urgency in his voice weakened slightly by the continued feelings of vertigo.  
  
Mac and Rabb took aim and efficiently downed all four animals. The dogs yelped and started to run off, but the fast acting drug stopped their progress back toward the house and they fell into sleep behind the four-car garage and carriage house.  
  
"Watch out for the body guards. Those dogs barked a bit. It might have drawn one or more of them out to check."  
  
The silencers were already set on their weapons, just in case they found trouble in the yard before seeing their marks in action. The three walked stealthily around the side of the garage to the courtyard, which would bring them to the front of the house. As they approached the corner, Rabb saw a shadow in the lighted surround of the courtyard. The three stayed back, waiting for their enemy to come to them in the dark shadows of the building. Their eyes had already adjusted to the darkness – the man approaching would see pitch black looking their way, just in time for them to knock the man out.  
  
Webb stayed behind the tree, Mac and Rabb were up against the wall of the garage. A burly man with a semi-automatic took the turn slowly, gun aimed at the unknown blackness of night. He took two steps toward the direction where the four dogs lay, but made no further progress as Webb stepped out and slammed the butt of his gun hard into the base of the big guy's head, knocking him out cold.  
  
Mac pulled the duct tape from her jacket, quickly securing the bad guy's wrists and taping his mouth shut.  
  
"That leaves four, at least," Rabb reminded.  
  
They moved to the edge of the building, checking the courtyard and main entrance for any signs of other dangers.  
  
"The front of the house is well lit. It'd be a risk to try to get to those windows without being seen. Let's head around back," Webb said as he watched Mac and Rabb nod their heads and move to the far side of the garage. As they approached the end of the far wall, all three stopped to look around to the back of the house.  
  
"Wow. Nice place," Mac said as they took in the back of the house. The entire length of the house held a sun room of enormous proportions, a part of it housing a pool with a retractable roof.  
  
"I like all the windows," Rabb commented.  
  
"Easier to see our guys in action. Look at them. They really don't seem to have a care in the world," Webb added with disdain.  
  
"We need to get a little closer for the pictures and for the microphone to pick up what's going on in there," Mac reminded.  
  
"Let's move along the wall to the other side of the property. Looks like some of those mutant plants over there will give us a place to hide closer to the action," Rabb said as he led the way.  
  
"What is it with all the larger than life plants?" Rabb asked, as the giant elephant ears successfully hid their presence.  
  
"What do you care?" Webb asked. The spy was looking pretty pale by now, the whiteness of his face threatening to expose their otherwise successful vantage point.  
  
Rabb decided to stop complaining and started setting up the recording device. Webb had arranged for a satellite pick up of the recorded information. The evidence would be sent back down to a van parked several blocks away where a CIA communications expert would catch every word of the discussions between Malakov, the general and Castro's crony Enrique Maldonado.  
  
"This is great," Mac said as she started taking the photos. The digital audio recording device provided a signal that it was ready, so Rabb set the directional toward the sunroom. Webb kept the earpiece, listening to assure when they had received enough proof to call it a night and place the final nail in the coffin of the traitorous General Lucas Armstrong.  
  
The threesome spent about ten minutes taking photos and recording conversation when suddenly they spotted someone coming around the back of the house, running toward the sunroom, yelling about dead dogs and a security breach. He started to raise his gun to the air, attempting a warning shot to his bosses inside the house, when he saw the threesome out of the corner of his eye. He quickly shifted his aim, pointing the gun their way.  
  
Rabb, Mac and Webb all took aim, trying to thwart the blast from the semi- automatic that would surely get the attention of the three men inside. Their aim was true, and the man fell forward, but his final act to warn his bosses worked: the finger pressed down on the trigger and the staccato sound of the rapidly firing bullets slamming into the stucco walls brought all three men inside to their feet.  
  
"I guess we have enough evidence," Webb said as the three ran across the grass to the sunroom. The men inside realized that they were in imminent danger and two of them drew their weapons. The general did not, not accustomed to defending himself in this manner. The bright lights inside the house caught them off guard, though, and they were unable to see Rabb, Mac and Webb descend on them from the outside.  
  
The three entered the sunroom, guns aimed at the two with weapons.  
  
"Drop your weapons. Now," Webb demanded, determination in his eyes, adrenalin coursing through his body, making the injuries of the last day a forgotten memory. "I'm Clayton Webb with the CIA and all three of you are under arrest."  
  
Maldonado dropped his gun, and Webb, Rabb and Mac knew why: he had a clear understanding of the benefits of deportation. His hand in the affair was limited, and Cuba's use of any of the intelligence that Armstrong had provided was no threat, not from a country that could barely feed, cloth and care for its people.  
  
Malakov also knew the score. He knew that the target here was Armstrong, and that diplomatic immunity took care of any possible culpability on his part, or punishment for his crimes.  
  
Webb called in the cavalry and within minutes the estate was flooded with CIA and military who started the process to secure the area, search the house, and place the Russian, the Cuban and the American under arrest. Mac and Rabb handed over the camera, the recording equipment and all of the weapons and gear, including the now very nasty smelling Clifford the Big Red Dog as evidence.  
  
Webb had remained on the phone, dealing with his superiors and other agencies to assure that everything was handled appropriately and legally, not wanting a technicality on this case. Mac and Rabb, their work on the case finished, watched as Webb handled all of the various interruptions by CIA personnel and military officers with the calm professionalism they had come to expect over the years, the near disaster of the Sadik Fahd case becoming a distant memory.  
  
Though they could have left earlier in the evening, the two military lawyers stayed in support and admiration of their CIA counterpart, knowing that soon his body and his mind would be depleted of the adrenalin high that had kept him going these long hours, the clock now reading well past one in the morning.  
  
Webb walked to them as he left the forensics crew to continue gathering evidence.  
  
"You could have left," he said, walking toward the sedan that Rabb and Mac had retrieved from down the road.  
  
"We could have. How do you feel?" Mac asked, leading Webb to the back seat of the car.  
  
"I'd like to bathe my head in Motrin, while the rest of my body takes a long soak in a hot tub. A neck massage would be nice," he added as he eased his aching body into the back of the car, reaching to massage the throbbing of the wound with eighteen itchy stitches behind his right ear.  
  
"So you're feeling okay?" Rabb asked jokingly.  
  
"All things considered, not baaad," he yawned as he leaned his head back on the headrest.  
  
Rabb started the car as Mac got in the front seat.  
  
"So if we took you to an undisclosed location right now, with a house on the beach, surrounded by sand dunes, with a hot tub and gourmet meals for the next two days, what would you say?" she asked as she handed first a bottle of water and then three Motrin to the tired spy.  
  
"I'd say I wouldn't fight it."  
  
"That's good," Rabb said as he headed out of the walled estate. "We'd hate to have to disobey an order from Chegwidden."  
  
"No," Webb started, his answer interrupted by another yawn. "Sorry," he said to his friends, his manners never forgotten, even when he was dead on his feet. "I can't believe that would be very good for your careers."  
  
It was the last they heard from him as he fell into an easy, sound sleep in the back seat. Rabb and Mac looked to each other, believing this was a swing in the right direction for their friend.  
  
The End. 


End file.
